


Luminescent

by 221b_hound



Series: Guitar Man [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Music, Rock Band, Undercover, lyrics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-10
Updated: 2012-06-10
Packaged: 2017-11-07 11:04:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/430366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John used to be in a band. Sherlock found out and now they muck about at home playing music, sometimes. A new case means they need to go undercover with a whole band: so Anderson, Lestrade and Molly Hooper step up for a revival of John's old band, Gladstone's Collar. </p><p>But will the band survive Sherlock's scorn? And will Sherlock break the rules and sing one of John's new songs in front of cops from the Yard, thereby revealing far too much of John's inner self to those who might be shocked by it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Luminescent

**Author's Note:**

> An attempt to write proper hard rock songs defeated my abilities, so I have used titles and lyrics from Shinedown's album Sound of Madness. It's sort of how I imagine Gladstone's Collar sounded. If you don't like that band, please just mentally substitute the band of your choosing.

Sherlock Holmes slouched against the doorframe at the end of the hall, practising his camouflage skills and observing the rehearsal. The alterations to his posture and appearance were generally operating as expected. No-one on the stage had noticed him yet.

_No. Lestrade has seen me, but is not sure who I am. Anderson and – dear God, is that Molly Hooper? This is even more dire than I’d imagined. She’s too busy with stage fright to notice me yet, and Anderson is watching John. Counting beats. Ha. His lips are moving. John, on the other hand, has seen me, recognised me, yes, and is… not ignoring me. Waiting._

John’s brand of not-noticing Sherlock was another piece of information to file away. _John is still cross._ There had been so many _rules_ about this undercover foray. None of John’s new songs were to be played, for a start. That argument had been short and, for a rarity, won by the doctor. “Those songs are _personal_ , remember? They’re not for public consumption. Certainly not for anyone who might actually understand the _context_.”

Sherlock had narrowed his eyes at John before reaching the conclusion that John was not uncomfortable about what the songs revealed about his relationship with Sherlock. _John knows the nature of our friendship is a matter of open debate at the Yard. He stopped being bothered by that months ago. No. John is more concerned about what the songs reveal about **himself**_.  

John-now was entire universes away from John-then, the angry, hurt teenager he’d once been, hurling his oddly contemplative pain, wrapped in music, to the crowd. The songs he wrote now weren’t for sharing. Well, not with anyone who didn’t live at 221B Baker Street. Sherlock felt an unexpected surge of pride at that, even though he had forced the issue. There was no accompanying twinge of guilt. Sherlock was perfectly happy with that course of events and where they had lead.

 _John knows he has no secrets from me._ Except, of course, that he did. Perhaps ‘secrets’ was too strong a word, but John was a _puzzle_. One of the things he seemed to not want Scotland Yard to know was what John perceived as the duality of his nature; the light and dark; healer and killer; the way he could be the calm centre of the storm and then the storm itself. One of John’s new lyrics came to Sherlock: _Angels have swords as well as wings, and I know that angels are such terrifying things_.

Sherlock knew he was being ludicrously fanciful, but something about John Watson and his music made ridiculous notions the only language available to interpret what he experienced. Because duality was not nearly right. Tripartite was also too small a division. John Watson was multi-faceted, and seemed not to realise how many sides to himself existed. Or perhaps he did, but he held all those facets in check, revealing each and every element only when the need arose. Not multiple personalities of course, but multiple sides to a personality more complex than appearances would indicate.

John’s studious not-noticing reminded Sherlock of another of John’s rules. Sherlock had avoided rehearsals for the first three days. The thought of being trapped in a rehearsal space with Lestrade for that period had driven him pre-emptively crazy. Being trapped in there with Lestrade and _, God help us all, Anderson and Molly Hooper_ would have led to triple homicide, at least. But after three days, John’s fiery lecture had been something to behold.

“I don’t care that you know all the songs, Sherlock. It is not, in fact, all about you. Not everyone’s a musical prodigy and the four of us, we’re not even close. If we’re going to be even half way convincing as belonging to this gig, we need to get in there together, be a unit, actually be bloody good. You can’t just swan in, pull the big diva act and swan out again. You rehearse with the band. Or you are _out_.”

Sherlock should have laughed in his face, because really, he was the key member of the band. The whole purpose of it was to get him behind the scenes in this musical camouflage so that he could uncover the plot, if there was indeed a plot. Mycroft, however, seemed thoroughly convinced that something was afoot. If Sherlock wasn’t there, there wasn’t any _point_ to this whole dreadful charade.

But John’s expression had been unusually forbidding. “I am not having you do this, Sherlock,” he’d said, cold as ice. Or chilled steel. The vapour was practically curling from those blue flint eyes. “You will not treat the rest of the band as disposable. They are our colleagues, and they are musicians, however far short of your expectations of excellence we all fall, and I _will not_ do this if you don’t pull your weight and act like you are in it with the rest of us.”

And Sherlock remembered that John had turned his back on music, had studied medicine and joined the army, rather than play with band members who did not take it at least as seriously as he did.

There was also the undeniable fact, Sherlock conceded, that he was doing this (at his brother’s and Scotland Yard’s request) only partly to ferret out the suspected terrorist unit believed to be using this massive music festival-come-competition to meet and plan mischief. He was mainly doing this because he wanted to see what John would do playing with a whole band again. So far, it has been fascinating. For the last three days John had gone from self-conscious and worried to, well, clearly enjoying himself immensely. John had developed the habit of dancing on the spot and humming melodies while making tea, interspersed with moments of air guitar. It was quite entertaining to watch.

Sherlock unhitched himself from the door frame, lifted his violin case and strode towards the stage. John quirked an eyebrow at him, but kept playing his guitar at Lestrade, who was wrapped around the bass guitar with a look of fierce concentration. The sounds from the two instruments were settling into and around each other. Beginning to sound like they belonged together.

Anderson’s drum work was pattering along underneath the music, too restrained to really be part of it yet. “This is a private rehearsal!” called out Anderson, interrupting the rhythm.

Molly, frowning over the keyboard looked up, startled by the arrival of a stranger, but then her eyes widened and she lifted her fingers from the keys. “Sherlock?”

_She knows it’s me and still she upwardly inflects. Irritating. They were expecting me today, surely, and in appropriate dress. Getting the look right, John said. Ah. Of course. Not expecting **this** look._

John stopped playing and finally acknowledged his arrival. “Went to town a bit, didn’t you, Sherlock?”

“Verisimilitude, John. One of us should look the part,” said Sherlock as he removed the violin from its case and mounted the stairs to his place on the stage.  Given the nature of the festival and John’s disapproval at Sherlock’s lack of dedication to the role, Sherlock had in fact put in effort – in his not infrequent over-compensatory way. Black skinny jeans. Artfully ragged V-necked t-shirt. Stubble, styled to emphasise a rather hipster goatee. The haircut had been necessary to make the rest of it work. The ensemble took ten years off him, and made him look like some _enfant terrible_ of the classical music _oeuvre_. Exactly the look he’d been aiming for.

Sherlock cast a critical eye over the rest of them. They’d pass, he supposed. He’d done some research and was aware that many bands did not go for a uniform look. Just as well, because these bandmates of his were so mismatched as to look like they’d been randomly chosen from other bands from disparate genres. A fair approximation of what had actually taken place. Lestrade had originally insisted that John and Sherlock be the only civilians involved, which left the pool of people at the Yard. Fewer of those than expected had both musical experience and sufficient mettle to work with Sherlock Holmes. That Anderson was here at all was a miracle.

_But John is the draw there. Anderson is a Gladstone’s Collar… what is that term? **Fanboy.**_

Sherlock liked that Anderson was mostly hidden behind the drum kit. The less he has to see of that idiot ( _jeans, Rolling Stones T-shirt, thinks he looks cool, but he’s trying too hard, looks like one of those middle aged men playing the fool on the weekend with a tribute band. Given we are covering Gladstone’s Collar, this is exactly what he is)_ the better.

Lestrade, for a wonder, looked at home in what he was wearing. Sherlock had never bothered to imagine how the DI would dress outside of work, but the torn jeans, peach cotton shirt and leather jacket seemed as natural as the suit. In contrast to this hyper-masculine casualness, John had been given a dark purple pinstripe suit and collarless white shirt. Sharply dressed. It suited him, made him stand out as lead vocalist and lead guitarist. Sherlock recognised Mycroft’s hand. John wouldn’t think to dress like that himself.

Molly looked strangest, to his eyes, abandoning that buttoned-down, sensible look completed by the ubiquitous lab coat.  Now she was more… floral: a cream dress, square cut across the bodice, tiny black and pink flowers scattered in a spray from the right sleeve down to the left hem. Low-heeled black sandals. She looked like she ought to be playing the harp in a Celtic folk band, or strumming mawkish ballads on an acoustic guitar in some pub in Norfolk.

The look of dismay on Molly’s face as she regarded his haircut was strange and puzzling. _Doesn’t like the haircut_. _Why on earth would she care about my haircut?_ He dismissed the observation, tucked the violin under his chin and paused, looking at John expectantly. If John wanted him here to rehearse with the band, then rehearse he would. But he absolutely would not stoop to small talk. _With **Anderson.** Dear God._

John suppressed a sigh. “Okay, everyone, let’s just try going through _Cry for Help_ , no vocals, I just want you to hear how it sounds with the violin part.” He counted them in, and off they went.

At home, Sherlock and John only played the more hard rock numbers of the old Gladstone’s Collar tracks when they had energy to burn (sometimes post-case) or when John was in a rambunctious mood. His eyes lit up and he’d grin like a loon and just shred the guitar like there was no tomorrow. This was not normally Sherlock’s style of music, but he’d attack the violin with a will and the two of them would make the most glorious racket.

This version of _Cry for Help_ , with this band?

Utterly, utterly awful.

All the right notes were hit, everyone came in on time, but it was dire. No heart. No soul. Not a fleck of joy. Just rote. Sherlock detested every beat and demi quaver. Sherlock came in on cue, but he could hardly bear to dignify this… this cold porridge of a performance. But he never played anything that was not his best. _This is how it should sound_. If Sherlock had ever anthropomorphised inanimate objects, he would have been feeling a great deal of pity for his poor Stradivarius right about now.

And John, the hypocrite, nodded encouragingly at the end of it, exactly as though his song hadn’t just been murdered by thugs in cold blood.

“Take a quick break,” John said, “Just need a word with the newbie.”

_Meaning me. This is disgraceful._

“This is disgraceful,” Sherlock muttered to John, as John loomed close to him, “You should shoot each and every one of them. Twice. What is Molly even doing here?”

“Turns out Sally Donovan can not only _not_ play an instrument, she is completely tone deaf. No use even for backing vocals. This is also not relevant, Sherlock. In fact, everyone was better this morning,” said John, very, very calmly, “And do you know what the difference is now?”

“Practice has rendered them too exhausted to think beyond smashing out all but the most approximate notes from their instruments?”

“No, Sherlock, the difference is that you are scaring the bejeezus out of them. Looking down your nose like the work they’ve put in will never count for anything.”

John glared. Sherlock glared back. John did not bother suppressing the sigh this time.

“Look, Sherlock, Mycroft went to a lot of trouble to have someone arrange these songs for us.”

“I suspect he did the arrangement himself. He has quite as much musical training as I have. He scored for a four piece band, you’ll note.”

“Yes, I noticed that he left you out of it, and that we both ignored his hint. You’ve written your own part, which is terrific, as always. But please remember, you are a prodigy, and we are just enthusiastic amateurs.”

“You are not an amateur.”

“How conveniently you forget the first couple of weeks where I pretty much had to relearn the guitar.” John held up his hand to stem a response. “Just… you were patient. You gave me time and let me catch up with you, at least, as much as I’m able. You let me… feel that I could try, anyway. It lifted my game, but I couldn’t have done it without a bit of room to breathe. If you could… let them have a little space, Sherlock. Don’t just show them how much better than any of us you are. Try to let us catch up a bit.”

_John is disappointed. In them? Me? Or… no. He’s looking at the guitar now. That expression is not irritation. It is…_

“Why is this so important to you, John?”

John pulled one of his myriad faces, this one combining puzzlement with a sardonic lilt. “Catch some terrorists, save the world?”

“No, this is personal. It’s…”

Another sigh, different in tone from the others, and Sherlock’s attention became a little more acutely focused. “We’ll be playing live in front of two thousand people, Sherlock. Two thousand. The best we ever managed, back in the day, was about two hundred. I suppose… it’s stupid, really. But in some bizarre alternate reality, shows like this would have been my life.”

_Nostalgia for a life he never had. Does he regret it? Wish that this, now, was not his life? No. It’s just…_

“I suppose it’s one of the ridiculous live-the-dream fantasies. It’d be fun, to do this. See what it might have been like.”

And for a moment, Sherlock could see that other life. Rock music and gigs and bestselling albums and multiple wives and lovers and tabloids and drug rehab and adulation and _We Are the World_ and God, it would have been such a waste of everything John was and had and could achieve. From the strange smile on John’s face, he knew it too. John didn’t regret his life now, but he wanted a little taste of the life that could have been.

Sherlock tapped the bow against his thigh, frowning. One of his early music teachers had lectured him, time and again, on playing with the orchestra, not working so hard to rise above. He hadn’t been trying to show off, just play his best, but the admonishment that he should do less than his best had rankled, and he had refused to obey.

But John had not asked him to play less than his best. Simply to allow the others to catch up. Sherlock was perfectly aware that he had given John that courtesy. He’d wanted John to come up to speed, and it had therefore been essential not to spook him by being too demanding at the start.

“Fine. All right. From the top again?”

The speculative look in John’s eye may have been the slightest bit sceptical, but he nodded and turned back to the others.

“Okay, I want to try that again, but let’s step it in slowly, one at a time, and Molly, you’ll sing lead. I want to hear you properly.”

“Oh! John! No! I couldn’t-I-I-can’t-I…”

John smiled warmly at her. “Of course you can. You’ve got a powerhouse voice hiding under there. But would you be willing to try something for me? Great. Just… kick off your shoes. That’s it. Bounce on your toes a bit. Great. Okay. Do you mind letting your hair out of the ponytail? Shake it… here, just… rough it up, that’s it. That’s rock and roll hair, right there.”

Molly ran her fingers through her hair and laughed uncertainly. She caught Lestrade’s eye, and he grinned approvingly at her before giving her the double thumbs up. Anderson played her a little BOOM-TISH roll and whistled, and Molly’s laugh became more confident.

“Come in as I cue you,” said John, and he placed his hands on the guitar and began to play in front of Anderson. _Look at Anderson lapping that up._ But damn it, if Anderson wasn’t… emoting. Into a drum kit. John wasn’t picking out the notes like he was simply hoping to get them into the right order: his feet were braced apart, and his shoulders were shifting. _Feeling the music._ And Sherlock knew, without seeing it, the conspiratorial grin on John’s face, because Anderson was grinning back in the same way, and John was nodding, and Anderson was throwing himself into it. _Anderson is actually a competent drummer. He’s actually competent at **something**. Maybe he should consider switching careers._

And then Sherlock realised. _He’s trying to impress John._

_John is doing precisely what he told me to do. Giving him room to breathe. To catch up._

With the drum and guitar doing the right thing by each other, John drove his body down into the next few bars, swinging around to face Lestrade, who was ready with the bass. The grins these two exchanged were a bit more fierce. _Lestrade used to play regularly. Garage band? His fingers are remembering, the way John’s had to._ Lestrade lifted his gaze to waggle his eyebrows at Molly, and she giggled, and Lestrade’s playing developed a certain musical strut.

_He and Molly will go home together tonight. I wonder if John will forbid it, after the Kelly and Bean debacle._

And now Molly. Sherlock couldn’t see how Molly would possibly rise to this challenge, but there John was, swinging away from Lestrade, striding over to Molly’s keyboards and mic. She began to play, first matching him, but it was only notes, it wasn’t properly music, but John was saying something, and nodding, and he shifted his body in entirely new ways. _Dancing with the guitar. Dancing with Molly._ Molly laughed and began to sway her hips, bending at the knee, rolling her shoulders, dancing right back, her bare feet twisting on the stage. Suddenly, her expression changed. She tossed her head, her mouth pursed in a sultry moue which managed to not look ridiculous. Her wild hair framed suddenly bright and excited eyes, and she and John laughed again, and then alchemy happened and where there had been only correct notes, there was heart, there was music.

John leaned into Molly’s microphone and sang the first line, then the second, then he nodded at her, and Molly leaned into the same mic and joined for two lines before the chorus was on them, and they threw their heads back and:

_You’d better pray that there’s another way out  
You’d better pray that someone’s listening out  
Because when you lie like the devil himself  
No angel’s gonna hear your cry for help!_

Sherlock’s eyes widened in surprise. _Good god, how could anyone know she had a voice like that? If she could just talk to people like that, without the simpering, she’d… certainly be less irritating._

Sherlock waited for his cue. Waited while John lifted Molly with his voice and dancing, and then she was all over the next verse, belting out that defiance and rage. John’s words sounded strange in her mouth, but also like she was taking ownership of them. The words spoke to something in her. Sherlock wondered what it was; made a mental note to someday find out.

He waited while John turned them into a band. Gave them space and oxygen and some kind of fire.

 _If I’m conducting light,  
What is it makes my darkness bright  
Because I am, I am, I am illuminated_.

The lyric came to Sherlock unbidden. _Does John know he does that? Illuminates them?_

It was such a novel thing, watching the man who was always following him step up and _lead._

_A soldier but an officer. A surgeon too. He gave orders as well as following them. He leads, he follows, he’s independent, he’s part of the team, he’s what he needs to be when he needs to be it. No wonder I can’t pin him down, even though he seems so ordinary. John’s a chameleon. He’s always shifting._

Sherlock, poised at his own mic stand, saw the looks on the others’ faces as they watched their lead guitarist. _The look that John gets on his face when he’s chasing after me. John is to these people, at this time, what I am to John._

And John was turning to him now, and Sherlock had the strangest feeling. That just this one time, he was the one following. He had unlocked this puzzle, and it could only be solved if he was part of it. One of the strings in the violin, not the whole orchestra himself. It was against all his natural instincts, but here, now, this was what worked. Here, now, it was right to let John lead.

He bent his body, knees, waist, shoulders, into the first swipe of the bow across the violin, raised his himself up again and met John’s gaze, and there was that manic joy in both of them, that happened when they played like this at home. Sherlock grinned, turned, played an aching poem of notes to Greg, the violin and bass parts written to interweave, and Greg leaned into the sound. The strings, so different, swelled together. And there was Molly’s voice, confident and strong with the violin rising through and around then over it, then sinking under again.

And John and Sherlock both stepped up to his mic and their voices joined with hers on the chorus. And it _worked._

It ended, a breathless crash of beats and instruments and voices and there was hardly a pause before John called out _Sin with a Grin_ , as rehearsed!” and they were straight into it, John taking lead vocals again, back at his own mic. The song progressed; Sherlock, throwing himself bodily into his playing, found himself sharing Greg’s mic, and the violin and bass notes danced together and pulled apart again. Sherlock even caught Anderson’s eye and it wasn’t until after the song that Sherlock realised that Anderson’s shoulders had driven into the beat in his direction, and he had replied with a flourish and tilt of the violin, taking and returning the energy that could not be defined in logic, because music, the heart of it, the great _symphony_ of it, resisted mathematical formulas. The music was where Sherlock had always put those unreliable, uncontrollable emotions, at least until he’d acquired this most puzzling of flatmates.

From there to _Call Me_ , Molly guiding them into it with the keyboard, John’s voice almost plaintive in the first few words:

_Wrap me in a bolt of lightning,  
send me on my way still smiling  
Maybe that’s the way I should go,  
straight into the mouth of the unknown_

This time it was the violin and keyboard weaving around each other, and Sherlock was there, not meeting Molly’s gaze exactly, because it was making her nervous again, so he stood sideways to her, and the notes met, and he shared John’s mic again:

_I’ve said it so many times  
I would change my ways – no, never mind  
God knows I‘ve tried_

Last song of the set, _Sound of Madness_ , and by now the chemistry had been found, and John snarled into the mic, and four other voices met him in the chorus.

And, by god, they were _good. Not better than good. Not yet. Still three more days of rehearsal before we have to be at the festival and be better than just good._ Sherlock met John’s eyes, which were filled with triumph, and Sherlock tried not to bask in the approval he saw there. _Fanboy._ Inside his own head, Sherlock didn’t even try to pretend he meant Anderson.

Outside his head, he and John were grinning at each other, and then John turned to shower praise on the rest of the band.

“Oh really, Sherlock, what are you _doing_?”

Sherlock debated not bothering to turn around. Watching John being a leader - _being luminous_ – was infinitely more interesting than talking to Mycroft, particularly when Mycroft was using that tone of voice. The tone of voice that said, among other things, _We didn’t arrange a part for violin for this tawdry charade. What have you done, Sherlock? It’s a **Stradivarius**._

Part of Sherlock agreed with his elder brother, but he, as always, ruthlessly suppressed that little voice. In fact, the larger part of him just as ruthlessly took up arms to cross Mycroft, because anything that wrested a little control from Mycroft and little more for himself could only be good, in the great and ongoing Holmes fencing match.

“I’m with the band,” said Sherlock, grinning evilly at his brother, “You don’t think I’d miss the opportunity to play for two thousand people, do you?” He caught John looking oddly at him, picking up that there was some specific history there, but not asking.

“You are not with _the_ _band_ , Sherlock.” Like those were filthy words, “You have the skills of a concert violinist.”

“You are engaging my skills as a consulting detective to winkle out the enemies of the Crown, in case you have forgotten.”

“I didn’t realise you would interpret that as participating in this cacophony. And what have you done to your _hair_? And your _face_?”

“I think you’ll find I’m the best judge of what is required to make this work.”

“Mummy would be horrified.”

John’s eyebrows rose. Mentioning Mummy always indicated an escalation in hostilities.

“Mummy likes everything I play.”

Mycroft bristled. This was clearly another sore spot. Mycroft raised his umbrella, jabbed it at Sherlock onstage, opened his mouth to speak…

He didn’t get to start, let alone finish. Sherlock lifted the violin again, grinned, jutted out one hip, Jagger-style and scraped out a flurry of notes. John saw the look of disgust on Mycroft’s face, the look of unholy glee on Sherlock’s, and threw himself into a matching set of ragged chords. He and Sherlock did this at home all the time, jamming, Sherlock setting John challenges ( _giving him space to breathe, to catch up, yes it worked, all the time, not just in the music_ ).

All unthinking, the jam changed though, the violin moved to a familiar but forbidden melody, not allowed on this stage, but John followed anyway, and it wasn’t until they were mostly through the song that Sherlock, eyes on John ( _who worries that others will see all the sides of him that don’t fit with their expectations, who leads as well as follows, who is… illuminated_ ) began to sing.

_Don’t’ tell me that you don’t know  
Whose side you’re on  
Because angels have swords as well as wings  
And I know angels are such terrifying things_

_And they are, they are, they are, they are, they are illuminated.  
And we are, we are, we are, we are, we are illuminated_

And John still didn’t stop him. He was still playing, though he wasn’t singing.

_If I’m conducting light  
What is it makes my darkness bright?  
Because I am, I am, I am illuminated  
And you are, you are, you are, you are, you are illumination_

The last note faded and they just looked at each other for a minute. Ignoring Mycroft, whose pained expression was practically audible. Then Sherlock turned to the rest of the band, ( _they’re wondering why they haven’t heard this song; Anderson thinks it’s one of John’s old ones, he looks like he might cry from the excitement; I suppose I’m not in a position to sneer, I did break into John’s filing cabinet to find it_ ) and, catching their gazes, began to play the opening notes of _Cry for Help_ again.

One, two beats, eyes flickering from the angry bureaucrat in the auditorium to Sherlock Bloody Holmes giving them the lead-in, and their lead guitarist coming in behind, and they lifted their instruments and smashed right into the opening, as near perfect as it was possible for them to be.  

Sherlock turned his head to see Mycroft flinching, his umbrella half raised as though he intended to use it ward off all the noise. Mycroft made a strategic withdrawal, after the meaningful use of eyebrows which even Anderson could interpret as _Meet me outside._

_Inevitable. The case to discuss. Unfortunately. This is much more fun._

The song ended and John leaned close to him. “Maybe I should send him a Gladstone’s CD for Christmas.”

“With sheet music. For piano,” Sherlock agreed.

“We’ll wrap it in a red bow,” suggested John, “And finish it off with a decorative box of paracetamol.”

“Just the touch it needs.”

John giggled, Sherlock snickered, for all the world like a couple of schoolboys. Baiting Mycroft was perhaps their third favourite hobby, after catching criminals and playing music together.

“I think this is going to work,” said John after a moment, “We won’t disgrace ourselves. It’ll be fun.” He unleashed a dazzling grin on Sherlock. “Thank you.”

Sherlock kept his eyes on the doorway through which his brother had recently disappeared.  “An audience of 2000? I couldn’t let you kick me out of the band, John. Mycroft’s biggest audience for a piano recital was 1200.”  
  


 

**Author's Note:**

> The complete lyrics to John's song Illuminated are here, along with a link to my attempt to sing it, a capella.
> 
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/426609


End file.
